


Sleeping With Fevers

by notverypunkofme



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Harry is too good for this world, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8671555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notverypunkofme/pseuds/notverypunkofme
Summary: It doesn’t anger him that Zayn has a new friend. What disturbs Harry is that this Irish boy is stealing Zayn’s attention, which is so precious to Harry, even though he logically knows that it was never intended to be exclusive.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to the most amazing Alex and Galeaya for the support and beta work. I owe you!!
> 
> Also I want to thank to the organisers of this fic fest for all the work, what a great idea :)

The bitter northern wind wooshes around Harry’s ears, turning the tips red. His fingers are already freezing from holding the collar of his coat up to shield against the strong blows. It’s mid-October, but the weather turned bonkers about two days ago, giving Harry a runny nose. He went to Poundland to get tissues, but they only had the boxed ones, and you can’t put the whole thing in your pocket, can you? Just another bloody annoying thing on the long list in Harry’s mind. 

 

Escaping the rain starting outside is not as appealing when you know that it’s not much better inside. The difference between the temperature can’t be that prominent, because Harry certainly doesn’t feel like taking his coat off when he settles down on the chair next to his little ratty desk. Wiping his nose into the sleeve of his black Saint Laurent coat, Harry checks his phone. The screen doesn’t show any notifications or new messages, nothing interesting.

 

He slumps down on the chair, huffing out a deep breath. How fucking ridiculous. He eyes the slimy smudge of snot on the sleeve. Yes, he does have a designer coat, but he’s still cold! He can barely pay rent for this tiny room with single windows that do little to nothing to protect this place from the whims of British weather. The phone he’s clutching is the cheapest model he could find in Computer exchange, with all the “smart” functions that he never uses because he can’t afford paying for data. 

 

With another long sigh, he stands up to take off his coat, bracing himself against the chill that hits him instantly. The cold bite of it is almost painful. He was wrong then. This thousand pounds coat actually works.

 

The sheets on his bed need an urgent wash, but Harry’s been too lazy to pack all his laundry to drag it to the nearest laundromat. He hates those places. The people there are weird. They radiate really negative energy, and the men always eye Harry with strange interest or a clear dislike. He’s not sure which one is worse. And, oh please, he doesn’t want to see any more dirty underwear with suspicious stains on it that people stuff the giant washing machines with. Also, he’s pretty positive that some of  _ his _ own boxer briefs have gone missing after those trips. 

 

He gets under the covers as quickly as possible, the mobile phone still in his hand like it could make Zayn to finally text him.

 

It won’t.

 

It’s been a week since he heard from Zayn. Since they hooked up. Again. 

 

Harry carefully lays the phone on his chest, bringing his hands up to rub his tired eyes. He should study, but he’s so tired. And the dark blue sky behind the window is only making him more sleepy. He snuggles deeper into the duvet, letting his mind to bring him to Zayn.

 

The images of Zayn come to him immediately. He remembers the handsome boy as if he was here right this moment. Remembers how Zayn held him down, careful but firm, fucking him relentlessly with deep thrusts. How Harry moaned for him. After Zayn listened to him talk about the Holland Masters essay, while inspecting the shallow cuts on Harry’s fingers; like always after one of Harry’s horrid night shifts in the warehouse. 

 

Pressing his forehead against Harry’s, Zayn would whisper, ”Your hands are getting rough, babe.”

 

And Harry would answer, “You like it that way. Don’t you?”

 

And Zayn would lean in to kiss him again, to start another round of the most indulgent and all consuming sex Harry’s ever experienced.

 

Before Zayn, Harry hadn’t been sure if he actually wanted to  _ be _ with someone. He had realised that girls hadn’t been the cup of his tea, sexually, even though he had had a few short-term relationships with lovely girls. On the other hand, he had been more than little scared to start something up with a lad. But coming to London on his own - fresh from college - London had its way with him from the very beginning. 

 

Harry still remembers the expensive - and a tad too heavy - smell of the cologne that a first bloke he had  _ real  _ sex with wore. He was older than Harry, worked for luxury brands and got a bag full of old Gucci and YSL sample pieces for Harry. Harry never saw him again, but he got ‘referred’ to the guy’s friend, which made Harry stomach turn over, but he still went to the ‘date’.

 

It ended up being a disaster, Harry left the lush hotel room in tears when the guy actually offered him money to fuck him without a condom. The feeling of total worthless, acute self-disgust, and burning self-pity forced him into taking a second night job in a warehouse.

 

That’s why Zayn is so important to him, Harry believes. With Zayn he has this deep, indescribable connection. And the sex is the best of his life. They switch, and Harry can’t honestly decide whether he loves it more when Zayn’s pushing into him, his cock dragging along Harry’s sensitive rim, or when he’s holding himself above Zayn, watching his eyes flutter shut at Harry’s first thrust. 

 

***

 

It’s all fun and games until Niall is introduced. To their mutual friends - Louis, with whom Harry works in the cafe, and to Liam, Louis’ best friend. To people they all sort of know from parties Harry mostly avoids going to. To a few of their school mates who care enough. Apparently to everyone  _ except _ Harry. It’s hard to tell whether it’s a coincidence or not. 

 

It doesn’t anger him that Zayn has a new friend. What disturbs Harry is that this Irish boy is stealing Zayn’s attention, which is so precious to Harry, even though he logically knows that it was never intended to be exclusive. 

 

So when Zayn starts cancelling the lunches they go for between classes, and study sessions in the library with an apology, but not an explanation he knows that the hook ups will eventually decrease too. 

 

Instead… Zayn invites Harry to the pub where Liam works part-time, the one where they all like to meet, explaining that Niall’s got a gig there on Friday. Harry swallows around the massive lump in his throat and agrees. Because he’s too easy. Too nice. His mum used to tell him: kindness is not a weakness. Harry’s not so sure about it.

 

Like always, Zayn is late that night. Harry’s been sipping one beer for the past hour, sat next to Louis and Liam, who is off the duty tonight, close to the small, brightly lit stage. It’s quite a wonder that a strong character like Louis is already willing to play groupie.

 

When Harry got into the uni and moved to London, he met Louis first, in Starbucks, after dropping the idea of getting a job in a gallery. Or a book shop. Or an independent cafe. Almost against Harry’s will, they’ve become friends. And Zayn with Liam are Louis’ best friends, while Zayn also studies at the same university. 

 

The loud chatter of the pub dies out as soon as the lights dim, except the one illuminating the stage. A boy comes up, holding a guitar. His brown hair is bleached at the tips. He’s wearing a white henley that stretches across his chest. He smiles and nods at a few people in the audience, catching Harry’s eye for a moment before he finally starts.

 

***

 

Louis finds him first - leaning against the rough wall far, away from the red lights of the heaters. The constant temperature of 10 degrees or less in his room has trained Harry well.

 

"You don't smoke," Louis says, lightning up his own cigarette that he always keeps behind his right ear.

 

"Tonight I do." Harry doesn't even look at him. He is tired and upset, and he knows damn well enough what kind of look he would find now on Louis’ face.

 

Louis steps closer to him. "So, was he that bad?" he teases with a pleased smile.

 

Angling his head to blow out the smoke away from Louis, Harry shrugs.

 

"He was bloody  _ genius _ , Harold," Louis almost exclaims.

 

Harry only shrugs again, wondering whether he can pick up what the young couple a few meters away from them are fighting about. He hates that Louis can practically see through him. He isn't used to people being able to read his emotions. He isn't used to people crossing the barrier of his comfort zone.

 

Gemma and his mum are the only people he considered his close friends for the longest time. Pretty much until the end of college. Maybe it was one of the reasons why he was so stubbornly determined to study in London - he couldn’t believe that a great family was all he could have. With a pang in his chest, Harry’s reminded how much he’s missing both of them.

 

Or maybe it’s just the smoking. His lungs have always been kind of rubbish.

 

He’s ready to tell Louis to fuck off, but Niall appears from behind Louis, all smiley and slightly flushed.

 

“Hi, boys,” he greets them, wiping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his khaki jumper.

 

“Nialler,” Louis grins, slinging his free arm around Niall’s shoulders.

 

‘Oh look,’ Harry thinks sardonically, ‘they are already best friends. Splendid!’, trying not to show the bitterness on his face, angling his body away from them.

 

“Well this is Harry,” Louis says in his loudest voice, chin pointing at Harry who nods politely, extending his hand to Niall.

 

Niall takes it in his, much warmer and drier one, and shakes it. 

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you finally.”

 

Harry’s eyebrows shoot to the sky at the word “finally”, wondering who said what, already side-eyeing Louis who’s always up to mischief. 

 

It’s easy to excuse himself and get back inside before they engage him in the conversation.

 

Harry thinks of Niall on the stage. How clean and bright his face was, mirroring Niall's character. How much Harry wished he could sing poetry rather than read it. If that's what Zayn wants.

 

He has seen Niall look at him that evening, long and hard. Harry wonders what he knows. What he wants. Niall’s gaze fixed on him makes Harry burn.

 

It’s bad, because sometimes he sees them together heading to the cafe, and Harry hides in the storage room, makes Louis lie for him. Then he watches through the little window in the door as Zayn pays for Niall’s hot chocolate. He sees them walking around the university buildings, wandering off to have a quick lunch at Five Guys next to St Pancras station, Zayn angling his arm so their shoulders bump together “accidently”, fingers brush against each other’s. It almost looks like they are holding hands.

 

Harry doesn’t understand romance. He doesn’t understand why Zayn doesn’t want him the same way he wants Niall. He doesn’t understand why he must care.

 

***

 

“I’ve seen you here before, you know,” Niall says and Harry nods politely, keeping his eyes down to pour the milk foam into the take away cup.

 

“I have a few lectures in the building nearby,” he explains, obviously trying to carry on a small talk if not a conversation. Harry wishes he could say he appreciates the effort, busying himself with the earlier orders before setting up to make Niall’s pumpkin spice latte. 

 

It’s only when Niall mentions Zayn that Harry’s head jerks up much faster than he would want to, finding Niall’s blue eyes already on him.

 

“He said you work here when I had told him,” and taking a cautious sip of his drink, Niall continues, “Zayn said you’re close friends.”

 

Harry straightens up, shoulders tensing. He has no clue where this is going, and he has no intentions being friendly with Niall. Like, what would be the point?

 

“We are not close friends,” he mutters, because, well - they aren’t, really. It’s not a term Harry would use to describe their sort of relationship. Then again - how would you describe a relationship when you are bloody in love with someone who shags you regularly, is intimate with you in other ways, but never hints on having “more”? 

 

‘It’s unrequited love,’ says the voice in Harry’s head, the one he’s been ignoring for months now. 

 

Niall smiles bashfully, apologetically. “Well, he said so,” he shrugs a bit, bringing the cup to his lips again. He is wearing a stripey top underneath a dark denim jacket.

 

It’s a real big shame that the shop is empty when you need it least. Like, Harry hates when it gets too busy, because his clumsy hands are not being to able to handle all the stress and he spills boiling water and coffee on daily basis - but, he wishes there were more customers to concentrate on at this very moment. 

 

There are none. 

 

He knows he’s frowning slightly, more with confusion than annoyance, when Niall speaks up again.

 

“I - I want to ask him out so I was hoping you might have some ideas on where to take him?” he blurts out, cheeks undeniably red, the cup in his hands almost shaking.

 

Something in Harry sinks. So abruptly, and with such an impact, that he’s sure Niall must have heard it land in his stomach, impossibly heavy and cold. It feels so ominous, long coming, inevitable and  _ real _ that he almost makes himself sick from the force of it. In the end, he stutters out a few suggestions, unsure and silly, before disappearing in the back to fetch more carrot cakes for the display.

 

Only hours after, he realises that he COULDN’T help Niall out even if he wanted to. He has NO idea what Zayn’s favourite places are. 

 

***

 

The date, if there was any, must have gone all wrong, because first, Zayn doesn’t mentioned it at all when Harry sees him next, and when Harry asks him about Niall while Zayn’s busy sucking perfectly round bruises into the soft flesh of his left side, Zayn says, “Hmmphf?” and carries on until Harry literally pulls him up by hair. 

 

“What about Niall?” Harry repeats, already a bit breathless.

 

Zayn dips in for a long, sensual kiss before answering.

 

“Nothing serious,” he scoffs softly, almost rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry about Niall,” he says, eyes hooded, already going in for another kiss. So Harry doesn’t. 

 

It’s only a few exhausting days later when he’s studying for the upcoming exams - knowing he can’t afford to fail any of them, otherwise his scholarship will be screwed - during a shift he can barely stand on his own legs, that Louis tells him that Niall lives with Zayn now.

 

“He does what?” Harry turns sharply to Louis, spilling soy milk all over the countertop in the process.

 

“Yeah,” Louis nods and continues, although a bit reluctantly. “I guess it’s quite serious now.”

 

Harry can’t work out any words. He starts wiping the milky mess with a rag, trying to calm down his racing heart and mind. He can feel Louis questioning eyes on him.

 

“Well, I don’t see why it would be,” he mutters without looking up. “It’s hard to have a serious relationship with Zayn.”

 

And  _ ouch _ , it comes out way more hurt and sulky than Harry was aiming for. He winces mentally, going to rinse the rag and wash his hands. 

 

When he comes back to the counter, Louis is already waiting for him.

 

They both sigh heavily, Harry bracing himself and cursing Louis for his endless ability to read him, and Louis probably because he’s not happy about what he’s got to say.

 

“Look, Zayn offered Niall a place because of Niall’s situation.”

 

“Yeah, of course, because of his situation,” Harry nods, crossing his long arms over his chest.

 

“So, like, it’s nice of him, right?” Louis presses, probably trying to put the situation in a different light.

 

“Yeah,” Harry nods shortly again, leaning against the counter before customers will appear again. 

 

He is so far away from even  _ wanting _ to understand “the situation”, Niall’s situation. It stings sharply, when Harry knows that his own “situation” isn’t much better. But he would rather die than admit to his only friends that he’s been living on dry toast and Heinz tomato soup for months now. Or, admit that the reason he rarely ever goes over to their places is because he doesn’t have the money to at least bring beers, and that he can never host them back;his room is so tiny and crappy that he would die of embarrassment. 

 

So, he plays anti-social one, the mysterious one; and gets away with it. Mostly. 

 

***

 

Harry lets Zayn talk him into coming over for dinner, and Harry spends all his extra cash on ingredients for homemade food - an absolute luxury that he’s happily willing to sacrifice for Zayn’s attention and the warmth of his flat. He didn’t mention Niall once when inviting Harry over, and Harry’s been trying not to read too much into it. 

 

Zayn’s flat is in a nice part of the city, a perfect distance from the uni, and his parents had given him a generous budget to furnish it and decorate it. Apparently, Zayn’s father promised Zayn his full support during the studies as long as Zayn’s grades remain excellent. And, you know, it’s sort of easier to study when you don’t have to divide your “free” time between two jobs. 

 

Still, thinking of Niall, whose own parents kicked him out of the house because he’d come out to them, Harry’s pretty “lucky”, if you can say it like that. He still misses his mum and sister like crazy, and being at Zayn’s, where everything screams “domesticity”, makes the ache more pronounced.

 

He’s humming to himself, opening the oven to retrieve the Italian Pear Almond Cake, smiling satisfiedly when he sees it’s baked to a perfection. God, he missed it. He missed this kind of easy chill, forgetting the pile of notes and study books on his desk. Behind his back, Zayn’s reading on the sofa positioned close to the perfectly working fireplace, his black rimmed glasses perched high on his nose. They make him look all smart and fucking sexy, and Harry’s been suspecting that he doesn’t necessarily need them for correction as much as for the “hot, young professor” look. 

 

He remembers that time when Zayn fucked him while wearing them, and his cheeks go aflame at the memory.

 

From the shuffling behind him, Harry can only guess that the smell of the cake’s attracted Zayn, and he can see Zayn’s lips stretch in a pleased smile. Maybe Zayn’s going to finally touch him. It’s unusual for them not to get involved intimately straight away, in the privacy of Zayn’s flat

 

Taking the oven gloves off, Harry can almost feel Zayn approaching him, and he suppresses a shiver that starts to form at the top of his spine. 

 

In the next moment, the door to the flat opens with a loud creak and then shuts noisily again. Harry turns around, frowning, heart racing from the fright, only to see Niall unzipping his puffer jacket.

 

“Something smells delicious!” the Irish boy exclaims, sniffing the air noisily.

 

Before Harry can react, Niall makes his way to Harry, inspecting the still warm cake, proceeding to pop up a piece of it into his mouth. 

 

“Ecstatic,” Niall murmurs around the bite, eyes closed.

 

Harry is literally frozen on the spot, unblinkingly watching Niall rubbing his tummy; only a few steps away Zayn chuckles. That catches Niall’s attention and he looks over at Zayn, the two of them exchanging a casual smile.

 

“I -“ Harry clears his throat, unsure of what he wants to say - probably inform them that he’s leaving and that they can enjoy the bloody cake -

 

“I used to be a baker,” is what comes out of his mouth, and he curses himself internally. 

 

“It’s delicious!” Niall takes another bite unashamedly. “Have you tried this?” he asks Zayn.

 

“No,” Zayn scoffs out a laugh. “Haven’t had a chance,” and he comes to them, placing a gentle hand on Niall’s shoulder.

 

Harry wants to leave, he really really does. 

 

“Haz is amazing,” Zayn turns his stare to him, his other arm stretching out to brush Harry’s arm. 

 

The whole situation feels so unreal that Harry almost thinks he’s dreaming it. 

 

Baker, he meant amazing baker, Harry quickly reminds himself, making an unsure move and shrugging Zayn’s hand off, missing the warmth of his palm instantly.

 

“Are you alright?” Zayn asks quietly, eyebrows knitted together in a worry, his big eyes searching Harry’s face. 

 

Harry really, really wishes he wasn’t such a pussy and just screamed ‘no’, left the flat and never came back. The problem is that he’s a fucking coward, and Zayn’s his biggest weakness so he only nods silently, taking in the way how Zayn’s managed to gather all three of them closer together; until they are overlapping each other’s comfort zones. 

 

The sweet air is now mixed with a tinge of cologne from how close they are standing, Harry can see a light dusting of sugar on the side of Niall’s mouth, and when Harry turns his head there’s Zayn, biting on his lower lip. The space surrounding them is charged with a kind of energy that’s making Harry’s skin prickle, but he can’t quite put a finger on what’s really going on. 

 

Until Zayn’s always-cold hand is cupping his cheek delicately, and Niall brushes his side as he takes his jacket off. Harry’s eyes flitter, unsure where to look because at this moment, nothing makes sense anymore. 

 

“Awfully nice of you to bake for us, Haz,” Zayn nearlywhispers, close to his ear, fingertips tracing his jaw.

 

‘For you, it was for you,’ Harry almost says before biting his tongue, eyes fluttering shut at Zayn’s nearness and the way he’s touching him in front of Niall. Harry can’t fight the flush that creeps up his neck and to his face.

 

“But maybe we’ll skip the dinner for once, hm?” Zayn carries on, casting his drawl in a low, seductive tone. Harry’s familiar with this voice, Zayn’s bedroom voice, and by now it’s clear to him that Niall is too.

 

When Zayn moves and his lips replace his fingers on Harry’s face, pressing a string of close-mouthed kisses along Harry’s jawline, all the way just under his ear, where he’s the most sensitive. By now it’s an instinct to tilt his head so he can slot his mouth over Zayn’s, which is exactly what happens. They get lost in the kiss for a few long seconds.

 

The moment when Zayn pulls back, Harry’s heart is about to jump out of his chest and break a few ribs in the process. He’s breathing heavily through his nose, blinking through the heavy haze of arousal that he experiences every time he and Zayn get intimate. 

 

Only now there’s one extra person. Harry licks his lips and turns his head slowly, eyes landing on Niall who’s still stood on the left next to him. He doesn’t spare a single look to Harry before Zayn leans into his space this time, and they smoothly meet up in an easy kiss.

 

At this point, Harry’s heart must have fled it’s place like a bird. Because Harry can’t feel anything, can’t hear anything except the wild hum of the white noise between his ears. 

 

Harry looks away, flinching, face on fire. Sure, it does make him uncomfortable to be witnessing such an intimate moment, also it’s  _ his _ Zayn who’s involved. What a mess, he thinks, studying the floor and shifting his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. Unease bubbling inside of him, and something else too, something like a sort of a weird excitement. 

 

It’s not until Harry feels a light touch to his hand, his wrist, and he looks up when Zayn nudges his cheek with his nose. And they’re kissing again. This time when Harry tilts his head for a better angle there’s another warm mouth, another taste. 

 

Because it’s not only Zayn’s tongue that’s met with his. Heart picking up, Harry doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that he’s kissing Niall too. The logistics of three-way kiss might not be the easiest thing ever, or something that Harry’s done - like, ever - but they are all enthusiastic enough to make it work. 

 

After more than slight hesitation on Harry’s side - and what Harry finds as a pretty vacillation on Niall’s, mixed up with Zayn’s “is this alright?” - they’re kissing and it’s  _ hot _ and - freaky. 

 

Mostly because Harry doesn’t know Niall very well, and he always gets very nervous and stupid when kissing someone new - also, there’s a big chance Niall is Zayn’s  _ boyfriend _ now, which is a fact that still hurts too much to even start thinking about, so Harry promptly chases the thought away. 

 

Getting intimate with another person in front of Zayn would have never crossed Harry’s mind, but it’s exactly what’s been going on here, Harry realises, tipping his head here and there to accommodate the two other boys’ action in the best way possible. 

 

Harry finds it interesting how easy it is for him to tell Zayn and Niall apart. In the mess of lips and teeth and tongues, bodies pressing together, the sweet taste of ripe pears and sugar explodes on his taste buds every time he comes to contact with Niall. On the other side, Zayn smells like tobacco and red wine he had been sipping earlier. 

 

He vaguely becomes aware of his erection when Niall leans closer to him, their hips coming together. His head is still fuzzy with all the yet-to-be identified tastes, and newly flooded out hormones, so he’s fairly slow on the uptake when the two other boys start shifting towards the bedroom door. 

 

Shuffling behind them, agitated but excited, Harry notices the soft looks Zayn keeps giving Niall. Reassuring and gentle. Harry knows this kind of looks. He knows because it’s the way he looks at Zayn when he’s thinking “I love you.” Not for the first time that evening, his heart sinks into his stomach.

  
  


Zayn turns to him with a murmur, “Alright, yeah?” It’s just barely a whisper. Voice more hopeful than questioning.

 

Harry nods. “Yeah,” he swallows, trying to smile a bit. 

 

The bedroom has the familiar smell of fresh linen and black vanilla candles. Harry catches a glimpse of Zayn’s library - full of expensive coffee table books with glossy pages, mostly about big music names. Harry recognises the grey tracksuit bottoms on the floor and a jumper with Scooby Doo hanging over the back of a wooden chair. 

 

He hasn’t been to Zayn’s that many times - they’ve hooked up in the library toilets, and once in the Starbuck’s storage room - Harry’s barely seen the flat in the daylight but he knows that the side of the bed where Zayn usually lets him sleep.  _ If _ he lets him sleep. And it’s rumpled, what looks like pyjama bottoms and a couple of study books chucked on top of the sheet. Those are not Zayn’s things.

 

Harry grits his teeth, remembering Louis’ words, and how much truth hurts enough to ignore it sometimes. He can have this for the last time, and ignore that it’s only an illusion. 

 

Getting three grown up boys on one bed - even a double bed - takes a certain amount of coordination, but they manage just well. 

 

Stripping off his shirt, Harry is agonisingly aware of his shyness, bashfully avoiding Niall’s curious peers, determinedly overlooks how Zayn playfully tugs on the waistband of his jeans and underwear, both of them snickering together. But when Zayn turns to Harry, in full seriousness, he knows that they are  _ all _ in this together.

 

Zayn helps Harry get used to Niall’s touches, shows Harry how to touch Niall. Murmurs, “Wanna see my two boys together,” in a raspy voice that leaves Harry breathless, cold shivers running down his arms and spine. Niall is careful with him, as if he’s approaching a scared animal. Every contact measured cautiously, but with a purpose to take Harry apart.

 

It must be many minutes in when Harry finds himself straddling Zayn’s waist, stroking his cock above Zayn who is clearly enjoying the view, sprawled underneath Harry, bare body littered with dark ink. Harry is already gone from all the long built up, arousal mixed with the initial embarrassment of having two pairs of eyes watching him so closely. Niall is settled behind him, probably kneeling between Zayn’s legs, carefully opening Harry up. That combined with Harry’s wanking has him dangerously teethering on the edge of orgasming.

 

He felt like this only twice before in his life - once when he was little and burnt through three days of dangerously high fevers, and the second time at a party two weeks into uni when someone slipped him an E, claiming it was “some herbal shit.”

 

Harry’s not even sure if this is leading anywhere. He knows that Zayn is content to only watch, previously often prolonging their sex until early morning hours without seemingly needing to come himself. Which is bloody unfair because Harry is always just about to come from a simple contact. And now he has two blokes making him really desperate at the same time. 

 

When Niall hits his prostate and starts massaging it with a real determination, Harry can’t stop the low moan escaping his mouth, hand on his dick speeding up instinctively. 

 

The corners of Zayn’s lips slowly curl up in a sly smile and Harry blushes furiously, hoping that Zayn wouldn’t notice how much Niall is turning him on, how much he fancies Niall - has fancied Niall since he’s appeared in his vicinity not even a month ago. 

 

But Zayn only reaches down, batting Harry’s own hand away from his dick and takes over. That leaves both of Harry’s hands free, and he’s not quite sure what to do. So he leans back on Niall more heavily, torn apart between the two sensations - Zayn waking him off perfectly, teasingly; and Niall’s fingers disappearing in his arse. The unbelievable strong feeling of being looked after almost drives tears in his eyes, and blinking furiously, Harry decides to close his eyes and relax for once. 

 

Harry never thought of participating in a threesome, yet it’s happening, and he will never regret it. The way the lads move around him, all their bodies in sync somehow - Zayn murmuring a string of praise to Harry, eyes unfaltering, now stroking both of their cocks together with the most delicious fraction Harry could ask for, while Niall holds Harry’s hips firmly with sure fingers, tilting Harry’s arse up to help him fuck into Harry at a better angle. 

 

Harry’s noisy, he knows, but he can’t help all the groans and whines from making their way out of his throat. The rough gasp rolling out from his lips when Zayn touches the place where Niall’s disappearing in him. It’s too much, he feels too much, losing a control over his body. 

 

***

 

When Harry wakes up, it’s still dark. He quickly finds his clothes and puts it on, leaves the flat without a single look back. It must be freezing, he thinks, on his way back to his place. He’s forgotten to top up his Oyster card, and there’s no spare change in the pockets of his coat. 

 

Fifty seven minutes later, he makes it back to his room, only to find out that the temperature dangerously matches the one outside. It’s horrible, because he can literally see the white puffs every time he breathes out, and then he accidentally catches a look of himself in the little mirror above the basin, eyes landing on a big purple mark low on his neck. 

 

His luck is that he’s too tired to even start processing anything, so the earlier events don’t come rushing to his head. However, the fact that he will probably never find out which one of the lads had made the bruise makes him sick to his stomach. 

 

He is worn out and achy all over, he realises when climbing into his bone cold bed, not really sure whether enough lube had been used. The room is so cold and unwelcoming, a complete opposite of what he’s left an hour and something ago. He cries. From pure exhaustion and emotional weariness. Too much is too much.

 

Jerking awake, Harry’s grabs his phone, hoping that he had slept for a few hours at least. Instead, the time on the display says it was mere fifty minutes. 

 

He groans angrily, fearing that he won’t be able to fall asleep again. On top of that, it doesn’t take a  nuclear physicist to figure out that his last meal had been yesterday’s breakfast. He definitely does regret not taking all the food that got wasted at Zayn’s.

 

There’s a message on the phone, that he didn’t notice before. His heart almost stops when he sees it’s from Zayn. It says,  _ Was a good fun, lets do it again ha xx _

 

Everything spins. Harry taps a new message.

 

_ I want to come back home. Hx _

 

And he sends it to his mum.

 

He will never will never find out if Niall thinks that kindness isn’t weakness too. Or gets to ask Zayn if he ever cared about  chiaroscuro.

 

Sometimes going back doesn’t mean losing.

**Author's Note:**

> Any kind of a feedback is massivelly appreciated :) Also I'm on tumblr now @stylingmrstyles xx


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